


they've never met a devil like you

by gearyoak



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:34:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearyoak/pseuds/gearyoak
Summary: “We’re hanging out tonight - that new cop movie and then dinner.”From the corner of his eye, Steve can see Billy look at him questioningly, then back to Nancy. “You and... Steve?”“And Jonathan,” Nancy adds on for him, smiling a little. Steve doesn’t even have to be looking at him to know Billy’s got his brow furrowed in confusion. “You should come, too.”This is not normal Nancy behavior, Steve’s realizing. Because she’s civil, like Billy is, but more in clipped words and short interactions. She never liked him too much to begin with. But now she’s smiling and being friendly - this is very, very not normal.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 20
Kudos: 173





	they've never met a devil like you

**Author's Note:**

> i have literally been working on this for a week and i don't enjoy it that much but if i rewrote the ending one more time and made the anon wait any longer i was going to physically lose it. just go completely off the fucking rails. i have no excuse for this other than i am bad 
> 
> title is from orville peck's roses are falling, a song about loving someone so much you just fucking get so mad; it's not rlly applicable here but it's just a song i associate with billy and steve

“I just think it’d be fun,” Nancy’s saying to him as he drops his books into his locker one by one. 

Because honestly, Steve’s sorta stalling. He’s trying to figure out how in the hell _him_ going with Nancy _and Jonathan_ \- who, as everyone knows, Nancy broke up with him for - to dinner and a movie would be, like, anywhere even close to a good idea. A _fun_ idea. 

“Uh,” he draws out as a response, because _now_ he’s wondering if she feels bad for him. Before they dated, they didn’t really hang out. Actually, they never hung out. Steve wouldn’t exactly say they weren’t friends now, but - well. 

This might have something to do with him hanging around Dustin more and more often. He guesses that might look really sad to the outside eye. 

Nancy doesn’t say anything, even after he’s done _uh’_ ing. Just keeps staring up at him with those wide, imploring eyes. Pointedly. He thinks that she definitely wants him to say yes, but there’s something stern about her right now. She always did this. Waited for him to ask a question she wanted to answer.

_We going to the library at lunch? Wanna bail on Tommy and Carol and just hang out at my place? That party seems stupid, right? Wanna just forget it?_

For the life of him, Steve can’t figure out the question for him to ask here. 

He shuts his locker and it seems like not a second passes by before his shoulder’s getting knocked into it. He swears loudly, but laughs as he does it, because when he looks, Billy’s smiling his shit-eating grin at him. This was Billy’s thing, for some reason. It took a hot second for Steve to get that it was almost puppy-like behavior instead of malice - aggressive play fighting in order to show affection. Steve spent most of his sophomore year thinking Billy hated him. That he was getting bullied by a _freshman_ of all things. 

Billy doesn’t take his shoulder too far away, so Steve’s stuck up against his locker with Billy’s arm tight alongside his when he nods at Nancy and asks, “What’s the priss want?” 

And that’s the thing, too. Billy says shit like that to anyone. He used to be way worse to Nancy, but Steve sort of assumed that was because of her and Steve’s breakup. This is him being civil, and Steve can’t help but feel a little appreciative, even if it does make the purse of Nancy’s lips intense for an extra second. 

She recovers fast, though, because she’s speaking before Steve does. “We’re hanging out tonight - that new cop movie and then dinner.” 

From the corner of his eye, Steve can see Billy look at him questioningly, then back to Nancy. “You and... Steve?” 

“And Jonathan,” Nancy adds on for him, smiling a little. Steve doesn’t even have to be looking at him to know Billy’s got his brow furrowed in confusion. “You should come, too.” 

This is not normal Nancy behavior, Steve’s realizing. Because she’s civil, like Billy is, but more in clipped words and short interactions. She never liked him too much to begin with. But now she’s smiling and being friendly - this is very, very not normal. 

“Uh,” Steve says again, at the same time Billy’s going, “I can’t,” and then both Nancy and Steve are frowning at him. 

Billy shrugs and explains, “Family thing.” 

“We can push it to tomorrow,” Nancy assures. And now, all of a sudden, she’s acting like she’s in a hurry. Hugging her books to her chest and backing up down the hall. “We’re free then, so - I’ll text you when, Steve. Okay? I’ll see you later.” 

“What the fuck was that about,” Billy’s saying, not asking. 

And, yeah, Steve’s thinking, eyes still on Nancy as she makes her way down the hall to where none other than Jonathan Byers is standing by the entrance to the art wing. They put their heads together, whisper for a second, and then Jonathan’s eyes flicker up toward Steve and he looks away fast when he realizes Steve’s already looking. 

Steve’s eyes narrow. This is definitely fuckin’ weird. 

-

He’s catches them in the parking lot after he’s sure he can hear the rumble of the Camaro roaring down main. They see him coming and Jonathan gets this resigned look on his face, glances at Nancy. Ultimately decides to school his features when he sees that she’s looking at Steve dead on. 

And, like, he isn’t exactly _mad._ Maybe a little peeved. He’s a little too used to people talking about him like he’s not there, or thinking he’s too stupid to realize he’s being talked about at all. 

So when he stops in front of them, he maybe says, “Okay, what the fuck?” a little too snippishly. Maybe uses his height to his advantage here, stands over them like his dad would’ve done to him. 

“What?” Nancy has the audacity to ask, because it’s obvious she knows _what._

He means to ask something like _what was that all about back there_ but what comes out is a simple and accusatory, “You hate Billy.” 

“I don’t hate him,” she defends. 

“She hates him,” Steve says to Jonathan, who opens his mouth to deny it but doesn’t say anything at all. Steve looks back at Nancy with a raised eyebrow. 

“You seemed like you didn’t want to go with just us, and he was obvious choice,” she explains.

But then she keeps staring at him, again with that pointed look. It makes Steve feel a little hopeless, a little stupid, because he’s not getting it and when he looks at Jonathan for a hint, he’s too busy fiddling with the fraying strap to his backpack. 

“Seriously,” he tries again.

And he must look real desperate, because Nancy’s voice speaks up again, softer and genuine. “We wanted to thank you.” 

That catches Steve by surprise. “Wha’?” 

Nancy and Jonathan share a look, the kind Steve’d seen Carol and Tommy give each other every so often - except theirs were usually accompanied with sneers and grins. They were saying something to each other without moving their mouths. Steve wonders for a second if he and Nancy had ever been able to do that. Then he remembers literally the past few seconds. Looking at her and not knowing what she meant by it. Her looking at him like it was clear, all he had to do was put two and two together. But it felt like all he had is, like, a one and a two. Not enough information to get by. 

It made him a little bit more irritated. 

“With everything that’s happened,” Nancy says, leaving room for the _between us_ but not actually saying it, “You’ve been... not as _bad_ as you could’ve been. Especially with how everything was handled.” 

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. They definitely don’t know about the pretty awful things Billy can coax from him when he’s had something to drink and an urge to vent. It makes him feel a little guilty now. He says, “I mean, I could still kinda be an asshole.” 

“That’s our point,” Jonathan speaks up for the first time. “Usually assholes really don’t admit to being an asshole.” Nancy nods at him encouragingly, then starts nodding at Steve. 

“What?” He asks again, but then he holds up both of his hands, shaking his head, because he doesn’t want them to answer. Because he _thinks_ he’s starting to understand the skewed-ass logic here. “You wanted to _thank_ me for not hating you after you guys went behind my back by, what? Forcing me to go on a date with you guys?” 

Jonathan’s expression gets pained. Nancy leans closer to him without even looking, and seriously, what the fuck, Steve is getting _sick_ of this. 

“A double date,” she clarifies, tilting her chin up challengingly, like she knew Steve is going to have a problem with this. 

And that’s when it all comes rushing back. The reason he’d stormed over here in the first place - 

“I wanted you to bring it up,” Nancy’s saying once his wide-eyed, shocked silence goes on for too long. “We thought it might be easier if you thought it was _your_ idea, him coming, but - “

There’s a million and one questions flying around in his head. Too many, It’s got his tongue too stiff in his mouth and his hands starting to get sweaty, for some reason? He just doesn’t fucking get it, and he wants an explanation, but the only question he can choke out is a strained, “ _Billy?”_ He realizes he’s gotten some semblance of control back over his tongue, and says, “Me and Billy aren’t - we’re not - _dating_.” 

Jonathan continues looking pained. He turns a little to face to the driver’s seat of his car that Steve’d found him and Nancy leaning on, appearing like he might be debating on getting in just to avoid the rest of this conversation. Steve feels the sentiment, but it’s like he’s rooted to the spot. 

“We know,” Nancy replies matter-of-factly, as if _Steve_ were the stupid one. Steve throws his hands in the air a little, a nonverbal _then what the fuck?_ “We wanted to help you.” 

Quickly, Steve looks around, over his shoulders. The parking lot isn’t empty, but no one seems to be looking at them or paying any attention. Still, he stares hard at anyone he thinks might be within earshot, waiting for a tick or a sign that they’d been listening in this entire time. Because, apparently, he hadn’t been as conspicuous as he thought. Apparently, anyone could take one look at his sorry ass and see him for what he is, a glaring neon sign hooked onto his back, blinking, _My girlfriend cheated on me with the basketcase photography kid, one of my good buddies is in middle school, my mom and dad wish they didn’t care about social status so they didn’t have to have me, I’m in love with my best friend._ Blinking on and off, on and off, _I’m in love with my best friend, I’m in love with my best friend._

He can see it in his mind’s eye in almost graphic detail; neon pink and green lights flashing to the steadily rising beat of his heart, _I’m in love with my best friend, I’m in love with my best friend and everyone knows it, I’m in love with my best friendI’minlovewithmybestfriendI’minlovewith -_

“Steve?” 

Imaginary lights pop and fizz and he comes back all at once to go, “This is kinda fucked up, Nance.” 

“Steve,” she tries again, eyes big. 

“No,” he cuts her off, backing away a little as if she’d reached for him. “No, it _is_ fucked up - this isn’t some Netflix original shit, okay, this is, like, _real_ people shit. This could’ve messed up everything, d’you get that?” And it kind of hurts, thinking about it like that. _Could_ have. The _could_ have implies that it _could_ have also worked out - and it’s not like Steve doesn’t think about that nearly every waking second when he can afford to. 

But the thing is, he thinks about it _way_ too often, so he’s gone through almost every ending scenario in vivid detail - only a few of them turn out good. Most of them end up in fists, or him dead in a ditch, or him having to leave the state with a new name. All of those one’s end without Billy. Steve doesn’t want to not have Billy, even if it’s only half of what he’d like from him. 

Even that feels selfish. Shitty. He hates the way he thinks, sometimes, and _especially_ now, in front of Nancy, who’s looking at him like she can tell what his thoughts are. She feels bad for him and he hates that, because he feels bad enough for himself as it is. 

“Just drop it,” he bites out and cuts his gaze away from her hard so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. 

He’s halfway to his own car about ten spaces down from theirs and footsteps are following him, Jonathan’s voice calling for him to, “Wait up, man.” 

Steve whirls around maybe a little too fast, a little too ready to snap at him. Jonathan doesn’t notice this, because once he’s close enough he’s shouldering off his bag in order to dig through it, carefully pulls out a smaller bag - his camera case. 

“I said ‘drop it’,” Steve says, attempting to turn back around to leave him there. 

“Sorry,” Jonathan tells him, unzipping the case anyway. “I’m sorry - we didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Steve, resolutely, decides not to admit that he’s freaked out. “You pissed me off, is what you did.” 

“We didn’t mean to,” Jonathan insists. In his hands, the camera’s screen brightens to a white, powering on. “We - _I_ really...” He trails off. It’s obvious he’s not good at this, either. “You could’ve really given me shit over this.” 

Honestly, that’s a little true. While Steve doesn’t necessarily hold the same place at the top of the food chain like he used to, he still has some leverage. He’s still higher than most. It would’ve been easy for Steve, it really would have. He could’ve let one right or wrong thing slip to one right or wrong person and he would’ve had the halls buzzing for days. Anytime Nancy or Jonathan walked through the school, it’s all they would’ve heard and all they would’ve seen. Whispers and snickers, heads turning to sneer at them. _Whore, freak, slut, shitbag._

A few years ago, maybe. Steve’s too tired for that shit anymore. He’s washed up for a reason. 

“But you didn’t,” Jonathan states. He takes the chance to not look Steve in the eyes by scrolling through what Steve can only guess is the gallery he’s got saved onto the camera. As he searches for something, he softly adds on, “I wanted to make it up to you.” 

Steve blinks. “This was _your_ idea?” 

Jonathan nods slightly, eyes landing on him for just a second to gauge his reaction before going back to the screen. After a second, he pauses. Stares at the picture he’d pulled up thoughtfully, then finally - after obvious decision making - turns it so Steve can see it.

The photo is not amateur work. It’s crisp and well-focused, so it’s clear to Steve what he’s looking at - an assembly from a few weeks ago held in the gymnasium. All the bleachers had been dragged out and piled with every kid in Hawkins’ High. He remembers seeing Jonathan on the gym floor, not paying attention to the speakers but grabbing pictures of all the students. He’s in the yearbook or something. Steve thinks that’s maybe how him and Nancy got to talking. 

He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to be looking at though, and Jonathan seems to get a sense for this because he’s clicking for the next photo. It’s from the same viewpoint, just digitally zoomed in up toward the corner where - oh. 

Steve’s mouth parts a little bit, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s _him_ in the center of the picture. Head thrown back, red blotches high up on his cheeks and across his nose, because he’d been laughing. He remembers, now, why he can’t recall what this shitty assembly had been about. He spent half the time not being able to breathe from trying to hold back laughter during the teachers’ speeches. The cause of it was sat right next to him. Billy’s mouth was opened around a pleased smile, obviously still talking, feeding into whatever he’d already said that had Steve nearly in hysterics.

He can’t even remember what they were talking about. 

The next photo had to have been taken seconds apart from the the last one. Steve had dropped his head, leaning down far enough to muffle himself into the elbow he’d propped on his knee. It was the one on Billy’s side. He never noticed how close that had made them, how that whole side of his body was practically resting against Billy’s. And, of course, he could never have noticed Billy grinning down at him, tip of his tongue between his teeth. Hand hovering just over Steve, like he wanted to drop his arm across Steve’s shoulders, like he knew Steve was going to sit back up, but didn’t want him going too far away. 

Steve snaps his mouth shut, suddenly angry again. He felt like doing something stupid, like smacking the camera out of Jonathan’s hands. Felt like doing something _stupid_ , like somehow getting this picture for himself and setting it as his phone’s wallpaper or something. 

_God,_ he’s thinking, running a hand through his hair. _God, fuck._

But he can’t look away from the camera, from Billy’s face on the screen. One Steve’s never seen before, not in the three years he’d known the kid. He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t want to be wrong. He doesn’t want to be projecting. 

Yet, somehow, he’s still going, “Okay,” on a shaky breath. “Alright, shit.” 

-

\--

-

He gets home an hour and a half later than usual. No one’s there to ask him about it. 

After he tosses his bag onto the table he heads right for the fridge, opening it and grabbing two cans of coke, looking over the tupperwared leftovers, then closing it again. He doesn’t go back to the table right away. He just stands there and stares at the stainless steel finish of the fridge. Looks at his warped reflection and thinks about how he hadn’t even been able to ask Billy what his “family thing” was tonight. He’d looked at his phone before he got into his car and then again as he was getting out of it. No texts or snaps from the other. It isn’t really unusual.

Steve’s feeling a little paranoid, though. Like somehow, purely through a conversation he wasn’t even present for, Billy’s sussed out what him, Nancy, and Jonathan had talked about. Not being spoken to in between Billy saying goodbye to him and right now means Steve’s getting the cold shoulder and - 

He shakes his head. Takes his two cans of coke, grabs his bag again, and heads up stairs. Drops everything onto his desk and takes his phone out from his pocket. Decides not to be delusional or overdramatic. Tells himself that he’s going to _prove_ he’s just overthinking. He texts Billy first. Puts his phone face down on the desk, and tries to do some homework. 

Then an hour passes. Another. 

The sun starts to sink below the tree line. Steve watches it, pen in hand and pressed to his notebook where it’s bleeding ink through the pages. He hasn’t gotten much done. His pre-calc textbook sits open in front of him and all he’d managed to do was copy down the first of the twenty assigned problems. Steve fucking hates this class. Hates it almost as much as Billy hates Brit Lit.

Fuck it. He caves. Drops his pen and reaches for his phone that hasn’t vibrated with a notification in hours. He goes into their convo and bites the inside of his cheek a little, because there’s no read receipt on the text Steve sent. He goes back and forth on turning those off, though, depending on how in the shits he is with his dad that week. 

Now a little antsy, Steve goes through his other apps. There’s still a few snaps he hasn’t opened yet. A few are from Tommy, and they’re closed for a reason. He complains about his and Carol’s voyeuristic tendencies all the time but that only gets them laughing at him and his snap spammed with double the amount of shit. 

Twitter’s boring. Insta is even worse. The sun is getting lower and his room is getting darker and no one’s texting him. 

Picking his phone back up was a bad idea. He sets it back down. Then he grabs it again and throws it on his bed. Gets up and pulls a new set of clothes out of his dresser, kicks open the door to his en suite, and distracts himself with a shower. 

The feeling of productivity wears off fast when he reemerges to rediscover his math book still opened with nothing done. He runs both hands through his hair with a deep, deep sigh and keeps them there, at the back of this head. His room is a glummy, dark blue. He’s not gonna turn his light on. He’s not going to finish this before tomorrow. This day’s left him so wired, Billy’s silence left him strung out - he’s probably just going to go to bed. 

He’s setting his five alarms for the morning and he hears it. When it’s distant, he hardly even thinks about it. It isn’t until it’s coming in closer, _fast,_ that he registers the sound - the ground shaking purr of the only Camaro in town. He’s holding still, like maybe it’s a mirage and it’ll fade away, and it does, a little but, but only because it’s _actually slowing down._ Steve can practically feel the vibrations of the engine humming through his lungs. He swallows around the sensation, goes back to his phone’s messaging app and, no. There’s still no text from Billy. 

The engine cuts and Steve’s still frozen in bed. He hears the door open and close. The staircase starts creaking underneath someone’s weight as they ascend. This, too, is weird. Billy usually lets himself in, yeah, but he also usually shuts the door harder. Announces himself with a yell, something stupid like, “ _Honey, I’m home”_. 

But, no. He’s quiet from his entry all the way up until he’s stood in Steve’s bedroom doorway. Even stranger, he doesn’t even seemed surprised that Steve’s still awake. Locks eyes with him right away, says, “Hey,” in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper. 

“Hey, man,” Steve says back. He struggles from there. He knows he’s not allowed to ask questions like _are you alright_ and _what happened?_ But there’s something about Billy’s face, drawn tight and carefully expressionless, cold in this blue light. Eventually, he thinks to go, “I didn’t know you were coming over, you didn’t text me.” 

Billy ventures further into the room, stepping out of his boots as he does. “Don’t have my phone.” His jacket comes off next, the denim one he always layers with a flannel and a t-shirt in the winter. He never wears coats and it gets him a head cold every year because of it. 

He throws it across the back of Steve’s desk chair as he comes around the foot of the bed, continues on the the other side that’s been left empty. They do this sometimes, mostly on weekends. Billy’ll stop by with no real intention of staying the night, but they get distracted until it’s late. First time it happened, Billy was still a sophomore. He’d bitched that it was too cold to sleep on the floor and the guest bedroom wigged him out because Steve’s mom’s porcelain doll collection in there. Steve couldn’t really blame him and he didn’t think much of it. Billy slept on one side facing the wall and Steve slept on the other, facing the opposite wall. He’d woken up, Billy’s back warm against his, and didn’t move until the other woke up, too. 

So Billy sits down heavily on the bed in his jeans and an old Pink Floyd t-shirt and it isn’t weird. It shouldn’t be weird. Steve still feels too stiff to move. 

“How’d your family thing go?” He asks against better judgement. He kinda hates how loud his voice sounds in the quiet of his room. He wonders if Billy would mind him turning the TV on. 

“Shut up, Steve,” Billy mumbles.

Steve’s on his back so he can see from the corner of his eye how Billy’s blond curls pile on his pillow. He turns until he’s on his side, too, and can’t see it anymore. 

He plugs his phone in and lets it drop with a dull thud onto the carpet. Lays there with his arm hanging over the edge of the bed and stares at the still open doorway. 

“You ever figure out what was going on with Wheeler?” 

Steve swallows. “Uh, no.” 

Billy hums and the sound is a little sour. “You’re not actually going, are you?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, a little too caught up on the _you’re_ part, because it’s not _we’re._ Just Steve, as if Billy never had any intentions of going at all. Which, he guesses, shouldn’t be strange, because he doesn’t like Nancy and Nancy doesn’t like him. 

The few seconds of silence get him an elbow nudged into his ribs. 

“Knock it off,” he snips, waving out a hand to bat it away. 

_“Are you?”_ Billy asks again firmly. 

“I was thinking about it,” Steve says slowly. Then, he busts out the very neutral, “If you were going, I was.” 

He hears Billy roll over, and he must prop himself up onto the elbow he’d been using to annoy Steve with, because his voice comes from above him when he goes, “Why would _I_ go hang out with her and Byers?” 

Steve turns his head and buries his face in his pillow. “I don’t know, man.” 

“This isn’t you try’na get back with her, is it?” The mattress shifts and suddenly Steve’s getting prodded in the back, “This isn’t you try’na get back with your cheating ex-girlfriend? You have to say if it is. I don’t want to be your wingman for her again. It wasn’t fuckin’ worth it.” 

God, if only he knew. _Nah, man, actually my cheating ex-girlfriend thought it’d be a_ real neat _idea to get_ us _together. Crazy, huh? And it’s even funnier, because the roles are reversed, my cheating ex-girlfriend_ and _the person she cheated on me with are gonna be playing the part of my wingmen to set me up with my old wingman - what a laugh, right?_

“I think she just wants to be friends,” Steve finally settles on saying. It’s not exactly a lie. “She probably just feels bad.” 

It’s quiet up until Billy flops back down onto the bed, must having realized that Steve isn’t - can’t - look at him. 

“Good,” he huffs. He tugs more of the blanket out from around Steve. “She deserves to feel fuckin’ bad.” 

Steve waits a full minute before he softly asks, “So’re you gonna go?” 

It’s quiet. The only noise is Billy’s breathing, because Steve’s holding his, biting down on his lip. Heart thumping. It gets long enough that he starts wishing he can take the question back. Then it gets long enough that he starts believing Billy fell asleep before he could answer. 

But Billy’s sucking in a deep breath through his nose. “Th’movie doesn’t look too bad,” he says. 

Liberated with the knowledge that no one can see him, Steve’s lip pulls out from between his teeth in a dopey smile. 

-

\--

-

His alarm goes off at 5:03 a.m. and for a bleary-eyed moment he just keeps staring at the ceiling. He didn’t get a lot of sleep, and when he finally did it felt unrestful. Muscles all tight like he spent the entire night flexing them. It sucks. Even in his sleep he’s tense. Anxious. 

The cause for it all groans, already grumpy and agitated. Steve barely gets a second to register it before a heavy weight falls across his chest. Along with it comes a mouth full of curls and Billy swearing up a belligerently half-conscious storm. The alarm cuts and Billy’s dragging back over to his side of the bed, Steve helping him along by shoving at his shoulder.

“Jesus, man, wake me up next time,” he bitches, sitting up as Billy flops back over. 

“Th’fuckin’ alarm,” is what Billy comes up with as an explanation. He doesn’t elaborate further.

He’s back asleep by the time Steve gets dressed, snoring softly all while Steve fixes his hair. He kinda regrets taking a shower last night. The sides are all fucked, but he gets it manageable. 

His routine doesn’t change with Billy here. He still makes coffee - the normal amount, because Billy hates the stuff. He makes breakfast - just one bagel with peanut butter on it. Billy only eats his with butter or cream cheese but those all went bad and Steve hasn’t gone to the store. 

He’s at the kitchen island halfway through the shitty thin side of the bagel when Billy practically stumbles down the stairs. He’s got his boots in one hand and the other threading through his hair, untangling it slowly. There’s pink lines across his cheek from the pillowcase. Steve pretends to scrape off some of the peanut butter so he doesn’t look at it. 

The boots are dropped with a clatter against the kitchen tile. Next comes the sound of the sink being turned on, full blast, and then it’s almost immediately muffled so Steve looks up and, yeah, Billy’s just. Hunched over. Drinking tap water right from the faucet. He stops chewing his bagel and watches, listens to the uneven rush of water. 

“There’s cups, like, right above you,” Steve says once it shuts off again - needlessly, because Billy knows that. 

He straightens and the front of his shirt is fucking soaked. Wipes his face with the back of his hand and his mouth is red from the cold water. “Fuck you,” he replies, then bends over to struggle into his boots without unlacing them or sitting down. 

_I love you,_ Steve thinks to himself and goes back to his bagel. 

-

\--

-

“This is fucking stupid.” 

And, honestly, nice. What a beautiful start.

“What’s your problem now?” Steve asks, and as he does, he’s passing Billy the box of skittles he impulse bought. His stomach feels too airy to hold anything down now. 

Billy takes it and nods toward Nancy and Jonathan from where they’re still standing at the concessions. But he says, “This,” instead of _them._ To be fair, though, he adds on, “All of this shit. We could be doing literally anything else, right now. It’s a Friday night and I’m hanging out with priss-ass Nancy Wheeler.” 

Steve snorts. “What else would you be doing - “

“ _Anything_ but this,” Billy answers quickly and pointedly. “Getting fucked up. Going to the mall fifteen goddamn towns over.” He tears open the box of candy and points at Steve as he does. “I could be playing fuckin’ Red Dead right now.” 

“That game’s, like, two years old, man.” 

“It’s a fucking masterpiece,” he tells him vehemently, then tips the box of candy so skittles pour right into his mouth. 

_I love you,_ Steve’s thinking again, and tightens his arms where they’re crossed over his chest.

School had been a nightmare that day. Felt like it was going by too fast and somehow not at all. Billy would find him in the halls at the same times, would crowd Steve against a locker and say something to make him laugh. And it made Steve feel bright, for a second, but then he remembered Nancy, remembered tonight. 

“People find out we’re doing this, you’re gonna look like such a little bitch,” Billy mumbles. 

Over at the concessions, Nancy and Jonathan are finally being handed two drinks and a bucket of popcorn. 

“Why? Because I’m being civil?” 

“Civil with shitheads. This is pussy behavior, Harrington. You’re turning bitch. Remember how you were when you were a sophomore?” 

“I was an asshole sophomore year,” Steve reminds him.

Billy’s smirking when he says, “I know, you were hilarious.” 

“You don’t think I’m funny anymore?” 

“Nah, but you got a heated pool, so I keep you around.” Billy responds to Steve’s put-on pout and obvious offense with a wink, then tips the box back toward his mouth.

It should be weird, when they finally get into the theater, because he has to sit next to Nancy and he arguably hasn’t been this this close to her in months. She’s too busy giving him meaningful looks, though, and that might be worse. It makes him hyperaware of everything, but _especially_ how close he is to Billy. It kinda leaves him wanting to fold back up into the chair, let it press him deep in between the cushions until there’s nothing left of him. 

Then, on his right, Billy’s knee nudges into his own. Steve looks at him and Billy offers up the half-filled box of skittles with a raised brow. Steve shakes his head and Billy shrugs at him, like it’s his loss. He doesn’t pull his knee away, though. Keeps it against him throughout all the stupid trivia questions, then through the previews, through the lights dimming.

Nancy’s elbow bumps into his and when he meets her eyes, they’re wide. Her mouth was pursed, like she was trying to hide her pleased smile, as if they were running the risk of Billy seeing it. 

It makes Steve settle back into his seat, lets his chest loosen a little. Relaxes, and his leg rests more into Billy, who’s warm and steady and capable of finishing the box of skittles before the opening credits even started. 

They don’t take the movie as seriously as Nancy does. Steve can’t see what Jonathan thinks of it, but he can see how sometimes their hands tighten around each other on the armrest they share between them, fingers intertwined. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. It’s easy to keep his mind off it due to the constant points of contact he’s sharing with Billy, how he can feel every time Billy huffs at a line he thinks is stupid. The way Billy leans closer to him to whisper, “ _that guy kinda looks like Coach McKinley,”_ is too distracting. When the actor dies on screen, Steve can just barely hear Billy whisper a faux-devastated, “ _not the coach,”_ and he’s focused on choking back the sudden, surprised laugh that jumps to his chest. 

He waits to get back at him, watches as the main character does some truly impossible shit in a car, leans into Billy to say, “I can do that,” into his ear. 

He doesn’t try to hide his snicker as well as Steve did, but it’s still quiet and the sirens on screen are nearly deafening. “The fuck you are. You’re sixty in the fast lane.” 

“The _passing_ lane,” Steve snarks back, feeling truly bright at getting him to laugh. “You maniac.” 

They watch the rest of the movie, heads together, commentating. Steve, truly and honestly, forgets that Nancy and Jonathan are even there up until the credits are rolling, and he’s hearing her go, “Wait, what if there’s a scene at the end?” 

Steve looks at her, actually a little surprised, and feels Billy pull away, like he’s remembering that they’re not alone, too. Steve can physically see the _oh yeah_ in his expression, tightens his jaw and narrows his eyes a little. 

The mood’s shifted after this, and it’s like only Steve notices. Jonathan finally convinces Nancy to bail on the maybe-but-maybe-not end credit scene, and she’s talking about the plot-holes, about how she thought most of them were so obvious that they had to have been written in or that it couldn’t have been left that open-ended. Jonathan’s nodding along, head ducked, smile on his face that screams fondness. 

He walks close to Billy, but he doesn’t say anything to Steve. Steve doesn’t know what to say, suddenly lost, so he keeps quiet, too, up until they get to the parking lot. 

Jonathan’s getting into the driver’s side of his car. Nancy’s got the passenger door open but she hasn’t gotten in yet because she’s looking at Steve and clarifying, “Diner?” 

“Yeah,” Steve replies after he swallows. Billy’s standing next to him and every interaction with Nancy while he’s here feels like a test he’s being judged harshly on. So that’s all he says, but Nancy takes it. Smiles in a way that’s clear she knows this is awkward, but it’s kinda sympathetic? Then she gets into the car. 

“See you in ten?” Steve asks Billy when Jonathan’s car rumbles to life and they’re pulling out of the parking lot. 

This silence is unnerving. Billy doesn’t do anything silently. Not watching a movie. Not sleeping. Once, in their first semester last year, they had a study together with an English teacher who firmly believed in quiet studies. Billy always had his headphones in with music so loud it made the teacher’s face twitch. 

So the way he’s keeping his mouth shut now - it’s giving Steve anxiety. It’s made even worse when Billy just shrugs and says, “Yeah, sure,” in this, like, _horrible_ toneless voice. And then that’s that, because he’s turning away and heading for the Camaro. 

“H’okay,” Steve says on an equally toneless laugh to no one. 

-

\--

-

Conversation at the diner is - well, he wouldn’t say it’s stilted. 

It just feels like extended pleasantries. It’s like Steve and Nancy are being forced to meet each other all over again. A little weird, but not unbearable, because some things Steve knew about her are still true. He’s just gotta apply them to these new circumstances. Nancy’s smart, but _he_ doesn’t have to pretend to be anymore in order to impress her. She’s catty when she wants to be, but Steve doesn’t have to act like he’s not just as bad in order to avoid a fight. 

Jonathan’s not horrible to talk to either. He’s a lowkey guy. Real easy to exist around. Steve’s trying not to be bitter about this. They’re talking about an English teacher they’ve all had at some point - the silent study one - and it’s simple, but nothing special. Common topic between students who don’t know anything about each other. 

Billy has the teacher, too, from last year _and_ for his Brit Lit class. He hasn’t said much, though. Too busy scrolling through what looks like twitter, too fast to be able to read anything. Actually, the only thing he’s opened his mouth for was giving his order to the waitress - a pepsi, nothing else - and then he kept ignoring them. Leaned up against the window with plenty of space between him and Steve. 

It confused Steve at first, but then it made him angry, which really just means he’s fucking petrified, because what honestly happened? It’s like somewhere between the movie and its credits, a wall had erupted up in between him and Billy. It’s driving him wild. 

His pancakes are wet and soaked through with syrup by the time the waitress comes back. It’s around 10:30 and the place closes at 11 o’clock. She probably wants them out of her sight as soon as possible.

She confirms this when she asks, “How’re we doing the bill?” 

“Us on one,” Nancy answers quickly, like she’d been waiting for this moment. Then she nods at Steve and Billy across from them and goes, “Them on another.” 

And Steve swears he feels the air beside him shift with how fast Billy looks up from his phone. Nancy’s too busy smiling politely at the waitress and Jonathan is too busy pushing around ranch dressing with his fork to notice it, but Steve does. God, fuck, does he notice it. 

“Alrighty, I’ll be right back,” the waitress exclaims with all that customer service gusto. 

The second her back is turned, Billy’s elbow connects with Steve hard. “Bathroom.” 

“Jeez, man, okay.” He slides out of the booth, gives enough space for Billy to get out, but when he goes to sit back down, Billy stays close. 

“ _Bathroom,”_ he says again, forcefully and through his teeth. 

Steve swallows. Gets back up and follows Billy and can’t even bear to look at the curious looks the other two are undoubtedly giving them.

The door shuts behind them and Billy’s going, “What the _fuck_ , Steve?” But then he stops, looks around at the rusty-ass sink and double checks that the two stalls are empty. Once he’s sure they’re alone, he rounds on Steve again, repeating, “ _What the fuck, Steve?”_

“What?” Steve asks, sounding a lot like a person who knows _what._

“She thinks we’re dating,” Billy snaps, pointing a finger at the door that Steve’s got his back against, crowded up against it by Billy’s sudden anger. “ _That’s_ what all this shit’s been about, why she wanted me to come.” 

“Wh - “ Steve admittedly starts to panic here. “Because of the bill thing? Billy, dude, it’s a pepsi. It’s not like I’m buying you a car, it just makes sense - “ 

“ _Dinner_ and a _movie,_ Steve,” he grits out, jaw tight again. “ _Dinner and a movie._ She thinks we’re _dating.”_

And it’s quiet after that, because Steve doesn’t know what to say. Not after he hears how Billy spits the word out, _dating,_ how it sounds sharp against the bare walls of the bathroom. Steve’s brain’s flatlining, his mouth is open, because he knows _is the idea of it really that bad?_ is absolutely not the thing to say in this situation. Not with the way Billy’s glaring and how his mouth is twisted in a grimace after saying it.

The only thing he can think of doing is sitting down to process why Billy’s reaction’s got his head aching and his blood going so cold it’s hot, stinging at everything, but that doesn’t really feel appropriate with Billy still right there. Looking baffled and pissed about it. 

Until he’s looking just baffled. Kinda recoiling back from Steve just a little. Blue eyes darting from every possible point on Steve’s face. 

His voice is very level when he speaks and it sounds dangerous. “Do _you_ think we’re dating?”

“No,” Steve croaks out. Billy’s eyes widen anyway, though, because it’s so obvious that there’s an unspoken _but_ there that Steve can’t manage to say. 

_No, but I’d like to be._

_No, but wouldn’t that be nice?_

_No, but I love you._

He doesn’t say shit, but it’s like Billy hears it all anyway. His face screws up in - it isn’t exactly anger anymore. It’s not disgust or confusion, it’s just. It’s a fucking mess is what it is. This is all a fucking mess. Steve kinda hates that he agreed to any of this, now.

“Billy - “ 

“ _Don’t,”_ he snaps. Grabs the handle to the door and pulls it open easy as if all of Steve’s weight wasn’t resting on it. “Stay th’fuck away from me, Harrington.” 

And then he’s gone. Steve’s back to leaning against the door. Staring at the space Billy was, like, a second ago and it’s so numbingly quiet that he can almost pretend like he wasn’t there at all. But there’s that ache in his chest and it started right when Billy walked out, like he reached inside Steve and scooped out something important and took it with him and it’s just, like, _oh._

That’s all Steve can think. 

_Oh._

He waits a full minute. Billy doesn’t come back.

He washes his hands, for some reason, and leaves the bathroom. 

Nancy and Jonathan are looking at him, a mix of shock and reluctant acceptance. Steve sits back down on his side of the booth, hands finding the receipt the waitress must have left while he was gone. 

“So, that didn’t work out,” he says casually after a tense second, feeling like a whole fucking wreck. 

Jonathan’s looking out the window at the spot next to Steve’s car where Billy must’ve peeled out seconds before. Nancy’s looking at him like she’s waiting to receive horrible news about a family member. Absolutely none of it makes Steve’s throat stop overworking or his eyes stop stinging or his hands stop shaking. 

“What happened?” Nancy asks gently. 

“Nothing,” he lies, shaking his head. “It’s whatever.” 

“Steve - “

“Just drop it,” he says, like yesterday, and this time he doesn’t let them change his mind. 

-

\--

-

His parents come home late Sunday afternoon. Up until then, it was almost okay, because no one was around to remind him how that night had been real. Nancy hasn’t texted him. Billy certainly hasn’t. People keep posting their usual shit on insta and twitter like Steve hadn’t ruined the, like, _one_ good thing he still had going for him. 

Then his mom scares the fucking shit out of him, opening his bedroom door and scaring the headphones out of his ears with how fast he sits up in his bed, and says, “Oh, you _are_ home.” 

“ _Mom,”_ Steve hisses, even though he wasn’t actually doing anything - it’s just the premise.

“You’re usually out with friends on the weekend,” his mother says and, y’know what, yeah, thanks for the reminder. 

He flops back against his pillows. “They’re busy.” 

“Your father’s in his study,” his mom tells him.

Steve’s putting his headphones back in, “Okay.” They both know he isn’t going to talk to him. 

He doesn’t hear his door shut for a second, but he doesn’t look back up at her. Instead, he turns toward the laptop he’s got sitting on his mattress next to him. The fans on it are humming up a storm, threatening to burn a hole through his sheets. He doesn’t care. He hits _Keep Watching_ and listens to the opening of whatever episode of Breaking Bad he’s on. 

The door shuts. 

Steve closes his eyes and listens to someone else’s meltdown. 

By Monday morning, he still hasn’t seen anything of his father and Steve tends to like it that way, so he leaves before either of his parents make it out of bed. It puts him in the school parking lot around 6:30, and the doors don’t even open until 7 o’clock. Worse, first bell rings an hour after that. 

So he’s back on insta, or twitter, or neither, because it’s Monday morning and nothing’s changed since the night before. No one did anything special in the last eight hoursl. A classmate from his Spanish 3 class tweeted about the line at Dunkin’s, but other than that? Nada.

It just feels so lonely. Like Steve is the only one in the entire universe. Empty parking lot, empty feed, empty goddamn inbox. And it continues for the entire day, that feeling. Steve doesn’t see Billy at all. They don’t share any classes, but they saw each other about five times throughout the day in the halls. Sometimes Billy would show up during Steve’s lunch period with a hall pass for the bathroom and sit for ten minutes, steal some of whatever Steve stood in the lunch line for. 

Billy went out of his way to find him. Steve’s always known that, it’s just hitting different now that he isn’t anymore.

He barely makes it to third period. The bell rings and Steve’s out of his seat, out the door, shouldering though anyone who didn’t notice him in time and move out of his way. He keeps his head down but he doubts the ladies in the office even see him stalk out the front doors and he doesn’t turn back to check if they did. He gets in his car.

He goes home. 

\--

-

\--

His mother doesn’t say a thing about him being early. Honestly, Steve isn’t sure she’s one hundred percent on when exactly school is supposed to get out. She just looks at him from over the kitchen island that’s covered in frozen fruits and a disassembled blender, all like, _oh, this must be normal._

Steve tries to hurry upstairs, keeps his backpack on, because not only are school days roughly three hours long, but they’re chocked full of work. He’s got a shit ton of it left over, he better hurry up in his room all secluded so he can get started on it. You gotta believe him, mom. 

“Your little friend stopped over this morning,” his mother calls after him over the clicking of a malfunctioning blender. 

His shoulders droop at being caught out and his backpack slips off, falls to the steps as he slowly comes back down the only two he got up. When he makes it to the doorway, he sees his mother trying to attach the blender cup without the rubber ring between the base. He doesn’t mention it. 

The “little friend” must’ve been Dustin. Steve hasn’t seen him in a couple of days. Last he heard, Dustin’d been whining about the chain on his bike popping off at random; he probably wanted a ride to school or something.

Steve shrugs. “If it’s important he’ll radio me.” Then he pinches his brow, because he hates that that’s a statement he can make. Hates that he has a fuckin’ radio in the first place. It’s how Dustin and his friends contact each other, some middle school nerd shit. They acted like it was a high honor when Steve had been given one. 

_This is some deep shit, Steve. Only those trusted by the Party or the Party themselves may carry one._

“Trusted by the Party” very loosely translates into “you have a car and it’s too cold to ride our bikes sometimes”. 

His mother stops her struggling and lifts her eyes too level him with a curious gaze. “He doesn’t have a phone?” 

“His mom won’t let him get one until he’s in high school.” Steve honestly is on Dustin’s side on this one. Not having a phone is, like, a safety hazard these days, but hey. Moms say what moms say. 

His own mother keeps watching him, mouth open and brow furrowed. 

Steve mirrors it back at her. “What?” 

“We’re not talking about the same friend,” she says as she realizes it herself, a sweet and triumphant smile growing on her face. “This one drove a muscle car.” 

Steve blinks. The blender kicks back on again and the clicking has gotten worse, so his mother shuts it back off with a frown. 

“What did he want?” Steve asks her. 

“I’m not sure, baby, he didn’t knock or anything. He must’ve seen that you were already gone, I thought he would’ve caught you at school.” 

Not if he isn’t there, Steve thinks. Not if Billy didn’t come at all. He never saw the Camaro pull into the parking lot this morning. He thought it was just Billy waiting until the very last moment to have a bigger chance of missing Steve. 

So, no, Billy definitely didn’t catch him at school. Steve gets his phone from his pocket and his heart sinks a little, because he didn’t text him either. He bites his lip, chews on it. 

“Thanks, mom,” he mutters after a second, eyes still on the screen where he’s found his and Billy’s conversation again. 

“No problem,” she returns. As he’s making his way back upstairs, backpack forgotten, he hears her whisper a gentle, _oh,_ and hears the pop of something attaching to plastic. Not a second later, the blender kicks on.

By the time he’s in his room, he’s written and rewritten about twenty starts to a text but deleted all of them. He’s pacing like a weirdo, running his hand through his hair as he types and backspaces and types. Half the time he barely gets passed a _hey_ before he’s groaning and taking it out. 

Because Billy was here this morning. He was here looking for Steve and that meant something, it had to. 

He stops pacing, faraway gaze landing somewhere out his window. Maybe it meant Billy was here to kick the shit out of him. Maybe he was coming over here to threaten him to stay away from Billy but he stopped because he saw Steve’s parents were home. 

Steve scoffs with a shake of his head, starts his pacing back up. If he was going to beat the shit out of him, he would’ve done it back at the diner. 

In a fleeting moment of daringness, Steve taps Billy’s name at the top of the screen so the dropdown shows the call options. His thumb hovers over the audio button. He hits call and then end call in the same second. 

God. God, _fuck._

A snapchat notification pops up across the top of his screen. 

_bgrove sent you a snap!_

Steve’s lip might start bleeding from the amount he’s been chewing on it. He lets it slip from between his teeth and replaces it with the tip of his thumb. The snap is a picture; he doesn’t open it right away. Billy will know that he opened it. He’s gotta get prepared for it, gotta get ready for any reaction he might have to whatever devastating blow Billy’s loaded into the chamber. 

Steve opens it, and it’s just a blurry picture of the quarry. 

And it’s not an artistic blurry pic, either, so he’s not wholly surprised that when he checks Billy’s story, the pic isn’t featured. No one else is seeing this picture. No one but Steve. It was _meant_ for Steve. 

He’s putting his phone back in his pocket, rushing back down the stairs. Nearly brains himself thanks to the stupid fucking backpack he left - cusses at it but manages to keep his momentum. His mother’s waving a colorful smoothie at him as he’s rushing out the door.

-

\--

-

He makes the fifteen minute drive in seven minutes. The roads are empty on a Monday afternoon - school still in and all the nine to fives already tucked away on main street. 

Steve slows as he turns off the road and onto the gravel path, grips his steering wheel through the trees that wind and wind until they break away. Until he sees the Camaro parked close to the lip of the cliff. Sees the figure hunched over on the hood. 

He throws the car in park. Gets out fast. Gravel crunching under his vans as he walks.

Billy’s got his denim jacket on but that might not be enough because he’s _pale_ when he looks up at Steve. A while ago, when he first moved to Hawkins, Billy’s skin was this incredible gold, warm-looking and like nothing Steve had never seen before. It was one of the first things he noticed about him, because there was so much of it when he saw Billy for the first time. Gym class with the Freshman from California, introduced to Steve with an elbow banging into his chest, so close. Honey-tan, white teeth, _Harrington, right?_

Now, Steve’s noticing his eyelashes. Thick and black against the pallor of white. Striking, noticeable, like the harsh cut of his jaw and the purse of his lips. He reeks, _reeks,_ of nicotine. An empty pack of Marlboro Reds lay crushed at his hip, next to him on the hood. 

_I love you,_ Steve’s thinking again. 

“You look fuckin’ miserable,” Billy has the nerve to say, and his voice is shot, too. As if the empty pack of cigs wasn’t enough evidence of his stress smoking. 

It might have been a joke. Like he was trying to lighten the mood, but Steve isn’t having it. 

“Yeah, well, you look like a fucking dickhead, so.” 

Billy exhales a little through his nose and it might have been a laugh, but it’s hard to tell with how his expression pulls into something pained. He doesn’t say anything, and really, he should. The metaphorical ball is in his metaphorical fucking court, but he’s not making a move. Just staring out at the water a few hundred feet below them.

So, fuck it. “I’m not sorry,” Steve blurts out. 

“About calling me a dickhead?” 

“About - “ Steve snaps his mouth shut. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other and crosses his arms. “I _like_ you.” 

Billy’s shoulders twitch a little. He burrows his hands a little further into his jacket pockets and goes, “Shut _up,_ Harrington.” 

“No,” he says, trying to sound angry instead of hurt. It’s a mixture of both, but at least his voice doesn’t crack. “Why did you want me out here?” 

Steve watches Billy’s throat work in a swallow. “I didn’t.” 

“Fuck you. _Why?”_

Billy just keeps shaking his head. He’s so fucking stubborn, Steve wants to take him by the shoulders and rattle him. For a second, he thinks he might. He reaches out and lays a palm on Billy’s arm, fingers gripping his bicep. His nostrils flare at the contact, almost like he’s considering pulling away.

His blond hair curls tight around his temples. It gets like that when he sleeps right after he takes a shower. Steve’s always thought about touching his fingertips to it when it gets like that, always imagined it feeling like pulled cotton, like silk. He wants to do it now, so bad, that he does, because Billy’s not pulling away from the first touch. And he doesn’t to this one, either. The second Steve gets his other hand on him, he’s breathing out harshly, those thick eyelashes brushing his cheekbones when his eyes screw shut, tight. 

Steve’s breathing, too. Loud and shaky. And, fucking Jesus, he can’t help it anymore. He’s got a little bit, more than he’s ever gotten, but he wants more. Leans forward, rests his forehead against Billy’s temple. He’s taking and taking and getting it all and he doesn’t want to let any of it go, not a fucking bit of it. 

“Billy,” he mumbles, and just as he’s about to ask the question, Billy’s answering it. Turns just enough to press his mouth to the corner of Steve’s after he lets out this broken sounding noise. 

Steve feels like crying. With the hold he’s got on Billy’s face, he presses his palm more firmly into Billy’s cheek, gets him to tilt his head, his lips to fit better against Steve. 

And he kisses him. Steve feels Billy finally pull his hands out from his pockets and it’s like every part of him softens in order to fit better into the arm that comes around his lower back. 

He kisses him. 

He kisses him, and Billy’s other arm comes up and he grabs at the thick hair at the back of Steve’s head, scritches his nails into his scalp. Tugs at it like a test, to see what Steve would do, if it’s all real. He can’t help the noise that escapes him, pushes it against Billy’s mouth, breathing and breathing and breathing, kissing him. 

Billy uses the grip he’s got on Steve’s hair to pull him away, whispers a shattered, “ _Fuck,”_ and shakes in Steve’s hold. 

He doesn’t try and kiss him again. He does lean forward, though, but it’s to hide his face in the collar of Billy’s denim jacket. Keeps breathing, takes in the faded-stale scent of cologne that’s embedded in the fabric of it. Steve fucking _missed_ Billy. It’s only been two goddamn days but it’s the longest they’ve gone without talking to each other. The first time they left with the possibility of Steve never saying a word to him again. 

“I’m sorry,” Billy’s mumbling. “I can’t, I _can’t,_ I’m sorry - “ The way he’s still holding Steve, not letting him go, is so contradictory it’s making Steve’s head spin. 

“I don’t get it,” he admits, and now his voice is breaking. “What the fuck, man? I - “

“My dad,” Billy grits out. “He’ll fucking kill me.” 

He isn’t supposed to ask, Steve knows. He’s not allowed to ask about family shit, especially when it comes to Neil Hargrove. He’s not supposed to ask why sometimes Billy’s not allowed outside his house. Or why he gets everything but his car taken away from him for being ten minutes late, and the car really is only because he takes his step-sister to school. He’s not allowed to ask why Steve’s not allowed to call her Billy’s sister, even though it’s been close to six years since his dad remarried. He’s not allowed to ask about the nasty looking burn scar on Billy’s left shoulder that still gets pink in dry weather. 

He lifts his head up, leans back enough to look at Billy. “But you want to?” And it feels shitty to ask, but it’s all he can come up with. He’s not allowed to give his opinions on Billy’s father, either. No _it’ll be okay_ or _that’s not how it should be._

Billy’s eyes are on him, blue and bright against the rest of the crisp spring. “No shit.” 

Steve’s heart is beating hard in his chest but for the first time it doesn’t feel like the beginning of a panic attack. He’s remembering the picture Jonathan showed him on Friday, the smile on Billy’s face when he was looking at _Steve._ The other night, when Billy muttered, _I don’t wanna be your wingman for her again, it wasn’t fuckin’ worth it._

“Oh,” he says on a sigh. 

Billy coughs out a single laugh, sounding a little hollow. “Yeah, _oh.”_

“But,” he starts, shaking his head again a little confused. “But, you ran away, you were so _pissed.”_

“I was fucking scared, Harrington,” Billy admits, and it sounds like it physically pains him to do so. “I didn’t know what the fuck was going on.” 

“I’m sorry - “ 

“I thought you were using me as some cheap rebound, or, like, I don’t know, trying to make her jealous or something.”

Steve makes a distressed noise before he firmly and vehemently states, “ _No,_ man. No way, I’m - I’m _so fucking_ sorry, I swear, I just, I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Billy’s looking real put out, real small despite the angry expression he’s keeping on his face. Like a wall of glass supported by a line of string - a shield, sure, but one small thing could bowl him over. Sensitive, always sensitive, and he hates that about himself, Steve knows. 

“You’re my best friend,” he tells him, because there’s a line between Billy’s brow and a scowl pulling his lips and Steve knows, _knows,_ he always looks the angriest right before he’s about to break. “I’ve liked you since forever, man.” 

There’s a pinch between Billy’s brow and his face is still pulled tight in a scowl. He brings a short but deep breath in through his nose. “Okay,” he still says. 

Steve blinks. “’Okay’?”

Billy shrugs. “Yeah. _Okay._ Alright,” he confirms. “I guess. Whatever.” 

“Okay,” Steve says too, after a minute. “So - “ 

Billy’s aim is better this time when he pulls Steve in. He gets a hand on his neck, and it’s rough how Billy moves him where he wants him, but it kind of reads as desperate instead of demanding. And Steve goes where Billy wants him, kisses him because he wants to, finally _gets_ to. Finally gets to bite at Billy’s full bottom lip, gets to touch his fingers to the sharp, sharp cut of his jaw. Gets to hear him sigh little noises from his nose, gets to feel big hands at his hips, his lower back, his ass - 

“You fucker,” he chokes out, breath fanning hot across the hollow of Billy’s cheek. 

“My dad can’t know about this,” Billy tells him all of a sudden. Steve wants to say _he won’t,_ but can’t get it out in time, because Billy’s adding on, “And, fuck, on _God,_ Harrington, if you think I’m gonna go on another _double date_ with Wheeler and her weirdo boyfriend, I’ll jump right fucking now.” And then he’s nodding toward the quarry where the sound of Steve’s startled laughter bounces off the cliff face, chiming like a bell. 

“You _fucker,”_ Steve’s saying again, a smile bright on his face. He leans down to get press it in the crook of Billy’s neck, chest loose. Arms tight around the other, he holds him. 

Gets held in return. 

_I love you,_ he thinks. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> honestly man. this is jsut. :(


End file.
